He Had it Coming
by part deux
Summary: Formerly: Justified -- It was a murder but not a crime. SarahxSpot, Sarah POV.
1. The Ending

**He Had it Coming**

_It was a murder, but not a crime._

* * *

There was a faint chill in the air that morning. Not enough to make me wish that I'd grabbed a shawl, and it faded to a comfortable breeze as soon as I'd stepped down from the Brooklyn Bridge, but it was a silent scolding nonetheless: it was still far too early for me to be out and on my own. But I couldn't chance a chaperone, and the timing was essential, if not crucial. And, without the cool water below to produce a whipping wind, the early spring atmosphere wasn't as gloomy as it had been at the turn of the year.

I could feel my dark hair flutter in the light breeze, long strands flying in my face, stinging my eyes. With a quick brush of my hand, I pushed my hair behind my ears. It might not have been cold enough to wear a shawl, but I'd been foolish in leaving a hat behind. After all, it _was _still March. And, while New York saw all seasons, it was a puzzle to figure how the weather would react: one day it might be sunny and warm, the next a bitter reminder of the harsh and cruel winters.

Shivering a bit, I kept my sewing basket close to my chest. My grip on the wicker handle was tight, the knuckles on my hand white from the force of the hold. It was my cover as well as my purpose; if I happened to be stopped by anyone—prospective customer or, perhaps, a police officer, even—I could always say that I was on my way to sell my piecework in another borough. This was my third trip over, the third time I've made this journey, and I hadn't been stopped before—but it never hurt to be prepared.

As long as they didn't look beneath the freshly tatted lace I had placed on top; I wasn't quite sure that I could explain away the liberal amounts of arsenic hidden at the base of the basket. Just in case, I'd made sure to bring along a small vial of vinegar and a clump of chalk as a precaution. It was the fashion of the wives (and the mistresses) of the social elite to mix arsenic with vinegar and chalk and take it in order to keep their precious complexions pale. Vain women, privileged women, they couldn't stand to appear tanned and ruddy, as if they had to demean themselves by working for their means.

I would never do it. My skin was pale by nature and, despite my afternoon strolls when Mama allowed me to peddle my lace, I was fortunate enough to have few blemishes. I would have made a beautiful bride… if circumstances had been different, of course.

Besides, after seeing what happens when arsenic is ingested, I know I would never be brave enough to swallow the poison willingly. Not that he had taken it willingly—he hadn't. For all the brains he thought he had—and, I scoffed, they amounted to precious little—he wasn't as dumb as that. Cocky perhaps, and definitely foolish to trust the girl he thought he knew so well that he accepted the arsenic-tainted mug with a half-smirk and a barbed comment. But the stomach pains he suffered, the wicked headaches, and the amount of vomit he produced when I administered his first dose a few weeks ago was enough to make me vow never to deal with arsenic again.

Of course, that vow wouldn't hold true until after today. I hadn't come this far and gone this far to give up now. I couldn't. With enough of the dreaded poison hidden in my basket to be certain that this third dose would be the final one, the fatal one, I kept my prim and proper and entirely false—yet entirely expected—smile in place on my pretty face. There was steel behind that grin, and certainty written in my eyes.

He was going to die today. With one gulp and a steady hand, I would become a murderess. He would be gone and I… I would be free.

I was looking forward to it with considerably more relish than I should.

The wind picked up then, the hem of my long brown skirt whirling at my feet, wrapping around my ankles as I hurried forward. A piece of rubbish was picked up in the gust, drifting right in front of me, falling and settling in my path. Pausing, I glanced curiously at it before recognizing it for what it was: the front page of another day's _New York World_.

I felt my stomach tighten in disgust, my skin crawl at the mere sight of the newsprint. Without a second thought, I stepped on the headline with my heeled shoe, twisting my foot savagely until the newspaper was torn and ravaged underneath my heel.

It lay there, defeated, when I finally lifted my foot back up. The paper shredded, the print and the photos mangled to the point where I couldn't recognize it for what it was. My heart was racing, my breath heavy yet shallow in my chest, but I felt the tension release as I calmly, purposely, walked away. Clearing my throat with a little cough, pushing my hair back into its proper place, I adjusted my grip on my basket one more time.

I was ready.

* * *

I was still ready when I made it to 61 Poplar Street.

Just on the north side of Poplar Street, two short blocks away from the Brooklyn Bridge, the four story building with the red bricks and the stone trim was imposing and proud. I remember the first time I saw it, the first time I snuck across the boroughs with a cache of arsenic safely tucked away. The Brooklyn Lodging House reminded me a bit of him, the way it stood there as if it owned the very street it was perched on.

There were many windows, some open in the early spring breeze, and I wondered if he was looking outside. It was still early, and I could only imagine how frantically the newsboys inside were preparing for another day hawking the headlines out on the street. Not him, though; he didn't have to hurry, and he didn't have to rush. I knew for sure that the distribution center would keep closed until he led the way to the gates, his cane in one hand and a worn slingshot in the other.

I cast my gaze over the building, privately assuring myself that this would be the last time I had to cower before the structure, the last time I let him run my life like this. Like I'd done twice before, I came here not to stare at the place that housed him—housed my lover, housed my enemy—but to finally put an end to it all.

A strait of stairs led right up to the wooden door at the center of the building. It was the visitors' entrance, and the entrance for the staff. But there was another way in, one that I had discovered by chance the first time I brazenly crossed into Brooklyn by myself. Down the alley on the east side of the House, there was another entrance for the boys who stayed there. It was that entrance that I headed to next.

There was no nerves, no regret, as I stuck my chin out in utter defiance and approached the hidden doorway. Holding tightly to my basket with my right hand, I formed my left hand into a loose fist and knocked as loudly as I could. I needed the sound to carry, to be heard from inside the vast building.

This was the third time I'd made this same journey and, as I waited for one of the boys inside to answer my knock, I marveled on that. Over the course of the last eight months he'd found countless reasons to take the trip into Manhattan but I'd never been expected to leave the safety of my good Jewish neighborhood. Still, when I first met him there, he didn't act surprised. He never let me see him anything less than superior—

—no… no. That's not true. There was the one time but…

I shook my head. What did it matter now?

It took some time before the battered wooden door—not nice, not like the light-colored, polished door out front—swung inward. As I had meant to do, I had timed my arrival precisely. It was still early enough that the boys were washing up and getting dressed; it would be difficult enough for them to even notice me there, let alone remember when he finally fell. And, of course, he would still be there. Cocky and sure, he wouldn't leave the lodging house until all the all other boys had left first.

It was a small boy—seven years old, or a young eight—who answered the door. His buttons done up wrong, and one cracked shoe still in his hand, it was easy to see that he'd been sent by the older boys to see who was at the door. Wiping his nose as he opened it up, his big brown eyes widened when he saw that I was the one standing there. He immediately tried to stand straight, flattening down his dark and unruly hair with a grubby palm.

I gave him a small smile, motherly and affectionate. It amazed me how easily I was able to fake the emotions.

Underneath the dirt and grime still on his cheeks, I could see his face turning red. He held up his hand, wordlessly telling me to stay where I was, before he disappeared back onto the landing and hurried back up the stairs. He was running to find the boy I was after, running so that he could give the message before I had to wait any longer.

He knew who I was there to see, they all did. I was there to see the same boy all of the pretty young girls came to see.

I didn't have long to wait. His cane in hand, one of his faded red suspenders hanging off of his thin shoulder, he was strutting down the steps before I'd had the chance to steel my resolve and prepare myself for what I was going to do. However, as soon as I got one glimpse—just one—of the smirk that split his handsome face, my stomach tightened in that familiar feeling of revulsion and I knew what I had to do.

My grip on that basket tightened so much that I could barely feel the blood flowing to my fingertips.

* * *

**disclaimer**: The characters used in this story are the property of Disney. They are used with the intent to create entertainment, not profit.

**end note**: And that's that for the prologue. Hopefully you all figured out who the person is in this chapter. Much more will be detailed in the second chapter. This is just the opening teaser. As Dane Cook says, I'm going to 'Tarantino' the story. I'm going to tell you the ending (above) and then start from the beginning to tell you what happened. Fun times.

**eta** 03/27/09: This is the first chapter of the rewrite; after deleting all of the nine chapters previously written, I'm redoing this as I feel like I could work it a lot better now. I plan on following the story that was here before, changing only a few things in the order and adding a little bit more to make it flow better. I want to flesh out the characters a little more and set the scene a little better. I hope I was able to pull it off, so far.


	2. Spot's Exit

**He Had it Coming**

_It was a murder, but not a crime._

* * *

The poison of kings.

I was told that that's what they called arsenic: the poison of royalty, the poison of kings. The man down at the shop who sold me my doses told me that as he carefully handled the drug, packing up my parcel for me. A seedy man with a thick beard and an uncomfortable leer, he wasn't concerned with my reasons for asking for arsenic by name; as long as I could pay, he was more than willing to sell. He kept himself busy—and kept me in his shop longer—as he mentioned that fact. He said that royalty from long ago days preferred to kill each other by slipping a strong dose of arsenic into one another's golden goblets.

He didn't have a golden goblet for me to drop the dark powder into that first time; a scratched and chipped mug I found had to be good enough. It was one of Mama's, and I brought it with me when I first walked into Brooklyn at the end of February. I didn't think she would miss it and, seeing as how it had been weeks, she mustn't have.

I'd been nervous, and I wasn't sure exactly how I was going to give him that first dose. Luck had been on my side, however, and when he invited me into a small room far from the superintendent's curious eyes, I saw that there was a pitcher with cloudy water perched on the end of an old, battered nightstand.

In the few seconds when he turned his back on me I had the mug out, the arsenic in the bottom. After making a big display of finding the pitcher and a mug that I'd never seen before, I offered him a drink of water before he could even invite me in. And the fool, he actually drank it.

For all the brains he believed he had, he'd given me the chance to poison him more than once. As far as I was concerned, it was as much his fault as it was mine.

There were no nerves now, only disgust mixed with the attraction I had to work hard to deny. With another smirk and the crook of his finger, he beckoned me forward; as if pulled by a magnet, I followed the knowing look in his piercing gaze, and I followed him as he led me up the stairs.

The door to the superintendent's office was wide open but the old man wasn't at his desk. I'd met him once before, on my second trip, and he was just like the old man, Kloppman, who worked in the Manhattan Lodging House. Kind and assuming, on good terms with most of his boys, he had turned his head when I was paraded through the second floor of the House, traipsing behind him as if I was a mere pet.

That's how he treated me. Like a possession, like a belonging, like his shadow, like his pet… like his own personal housecat. A saucer of milk and a gentle pat on the top of my head and I was supposed to be content.

But cats have claws, and cats have nine lives with which to make yours miserable. They can be spiteful little beasts when they wanted to be, turning on their master and leaving a welt and a trickle of blood in their wake as they nonchalantly licked their paw.

I was like a cat, my back arched as I hissed and I spit.

The time had come when I was finally going to sharpen my claws and swat back.

There were countless boys swarming around this floor. In my concentration their faces danced in and out of my vision, their features blurring until each and every one of them looked exactly the same to me. Only he stood out, the handsomest of them all—the cocky son of a bitch who had brought me to my knees.

It was my turn now.

He brought me into that same small room. It was for quarantine, he told me once, a room with a table and a small cot for the sick ones who couldn't be left in the bunkroom. With a sly smile and a lecherous look in his eyes, I knew that the single bed wasn't only used for the ill children. It was only too easy to see that that was why he kept bringing me to this part of the lodging house specifically but I had my pride—and I had my purpose.

In a mockery of a gentlemanly gesture he held the door open for me, letting me enter first. Murmuring my thanks under my breath, I slid past him. As I'd hoped, the pitcher was full again and sitting on the edge of the nightstand next to the mug I'd left behind. Casually setting my basket down beside it, I managed to slip my slender hand under the lace and grab the sachet of arsenic.

With one swift maneuver, I had dumped the poison into the empty mug and slipped the empty sachet in the front pocket of my skirt before he'd even closed the door behind us.

He met me at my side, his eyebrow cocked both in surprise and anticipation. I'd promised him—and I'd lied—that I would be willing to lie with him in this room the next time I managed to sneak back over the Bridge. Our meetings have always been a secret, at my request, and, as far as he knew, it took all of my nerve and my ingenuity to slip away from Mama's apron strings long enough for these quick get-togethers.

If he knew that I was much more inventive than he thought, he wouldn't have been so trusting.

But I was a girl—I was, begrudgingly but admittedly, _his_ girl—and my intelligence was limited to the kitchen and to my piecework. I didn't get to go to school like my brothers, and I was to be kept home whenever I could, but that didn't mean that I was just a pretty face…

I was much more than that. It's a pity he'll never know how much more.

With an ink-stained hand, he reached for my elbow but I managed to escape his grasp. He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, and a sharp cry of my name, but I just smiled. Wasn't he thirsty, I wondered. Didn't he want a drink first?

He was impatient but he knew me enough to know that, as docile as he would like me to be, I could be stubborn when I wanted to. With a small quirk of his lips and an amused laugh, he held out that same hand. Feeling a thump in my heart, I grasped the handle of the glass pitcher so tightly that I was afraid it might shatter in my hold. It didn't, and I was able to pour him a mug of water without spilling a drop.

Accepting it without a word, I watched with an eager eye as he downed the contents in three gulps. I couldn't hide my grin, feeling it stretch the width of my face as he set the mug down on the floor at his feet.

Now all that was left to do was wait—and, as I waited, I tried hard not to remember.

He'd been so surprised the first time I insisted he have a drink. I told him I was thirsty and I drank first. Wondering sweetly if he wanted to share, and marveling that it was so warm in this room for the chill winter weather, I slipped the poison in when he turned around to open the window. I all but poured the water down his throat myself when he reached for my hand and led me over to the bed.

He was suspicious, too. The headache came first, a throbbing behind his eye that he couldn't explain—and which gave me a reprieve from lying beside him that morning. The stomach cramps began shortly after. Doubled over in a pain he obviously didn't want me to see, I could have sworn I saw accusation written in his eyes… but he never said the words. Averting his gaze, mumbling that he was fine, he refused to believe that I—me, innocent, sweet Sarah—could have done this to him.

I sat there with him for an hour, rubbing his back as I whispered soft and soothing and comforting words into his ear. He must've thought I was trying to do my best to make the pain go away. I wasn't. I was trying to figure out how much more of the arsenic I would have to give him the next time to finish what I started.

The second time I was more careful. Explaining that I was on an errand for Mama, and that I could only stay for a few short moments, I asked him for some of the liquor I knew the boys kept hidden away in the bunkroom. He thought I was looking for something to lower my inhibitions, but I used the whiskey he brought with him to mix the arsenic and the water. I pretended to take a sip off of the mixture myself before telling him it was too strong for me and offering it back.

He drank it, of course. The whiskey dulled the effects and, while he felt the horrible pain much later, he never thought to turn the blame on me. It took him a few days to recover before he was able to find me in Manhattan again. I was a little put out that he wasn't dead, a little troubled to see that he still touched me with lust and pride, but I decided it was worth the wait.

The last thing I needed was for someone to rightly place the blame of his death on me. If he dies and I go to the electric chair for my role in his death, was it worth it?

It might be. If I had to die myself to be free, at least I was able to take him with me. But, even in death, I would have to follow him…

The electric chair was a real threat now, too. Only a year ago, last April to be exact, they'd executed the first woman down in Sing Sing. Ms. Martha Place had murdered her seventeen-year old stepdaughter by smothering her and she'd been killed for her crime. If she could be given the electric chair, I could. I was murdering someone, wasn't I?

But he had it coming, I told myself, my eyes straying to the empty mug and the shadow that fell across it. He had it coming. This was a murder, of course, but it wasn't a crime. A crime… it would be a crime to let him see another day.

His right hand reached out again for my arm, his left hand already slipping the second suspender off of his shoulder. They hung down past his waist now, drawing attention to the faded trousers he was desperate to shed. It made me apprehensive to see that he had full control of his hands and his urges.

"You promised," he said with the wolfish smile I'd come to know so well. But, just as he slowly brought me closer to the bed, I felt his hand slip off of my elbow. He stopped, shook his head once, the smile melting right off of his face.

He looked confused, and then—unless I was imagining it—a little bit of afraid. The fear didn't last, though his face twisted into an agony that he struggled to hide. His knees buckled underneath him, and he fell down to the cot; gripping the end of the bed to keep him sitting up, it was easy to see that I'd been correct in assuming that the arsenic today he added to the drugs already in his system would prove fatal.

It took all I had to keep that sigh of relief silent.

"Sarah," he mumbled then, his eyes already swimming in and out of focus, "I don't feel right." He gulped, his thin frame shuddering slightly as he bent over, placing his head between his knees. "Sarah, what was in that cup?"

"Nothing," I lied sweetly, running my fingers lazily down his back. "Why, what's wrong?" He trembled under my touch, looking up at me through thick eyelashes. Those beautiful, beautiful eyes of his were glazed but there was no mistaking the understanding tucked within their depths.

He knew I was lying. He knew exactly what I'd done.

And he was accepting it.

From my seat beside him, I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the back of his head. For all he'd done—for all I'd done—I think… I'm quite sure that I still loved him.

"Goodbye, Spot," I said then, patting his sweat-soaked hair. The sudden damp made his dirty blond hair look even dirtier and I wiped the palm of my hand on my skirt. Rising slowly, turning my back on him, I put as much space between us as I could as I walked purposefully towards the nightstand.

"Sarah," he said, his voice slurred but hoarse. Swallowing loudly, swallowing back his pride and the poison, he croaked out two words. "Don't go."

I ignored him—I had to—as I retrieved my basket and callously reached down for the mug at his feet. Stowing the evidence of my treachery underneath the lace, I nearly jumped when I felt his cold, clammy hands on my wrist.

"I loved you, Sarah. I… I really did."

I thought about his admission for a moment before nodding, pulling my hand back and out of his reach. "I know," I said at last.

And then I left.

For all I'd thought I'd be able to do it, I couldn't watch Spot Conlon die.

* * *

The poison of kings.

As I walked calmly back through the busy, crowded lodging house, my head held high and my sewing basket close to my chest, I thought back to that disgusting old shopkeeper who sold me my arsenic. The poison of royalty, he'd called it, the poison of kings.

What other way should the self-proclaimed King of New York die than with the royal poison of arsenic?

* * *

**disclaimer**: The characters used in this story are the property of Disney. They are used with the intent to create entertainment, not profit.

**end note**: Surprise! It was Sarah Jacobs. Never would have guessed she had it in her, eh? I figure, it's time that Sarah gets her own story. Just like I said in the last chapter, the first chapter was – technically – the ending. Therefore, this is the beginning. It starts halfway through the movie, and is taken from Sarah's personality. This story might not have any original characters, which I probably should have said first chapter. Maybe then it would have been more obvious that the girl was Sarah.

There is something you need to know about me. I highly prefer Angst!Sarah and Womanizer!Spot. Those are the two personalities that I like to attribute to them; they will be the basis of the personality that I give each in this story. Sarah seemed too much of a goody-goody to me; I like to make her angsty. It's just so yummy. And Spot? Who doesn't love a womanizer?

**eta **03/28/09: Just to let you know, I'm going to leave up the old end notes to show my mindset at the conception of this story while adding a little something behind the reasoning for the rewrite. As for this chapter, I split up the former first chapter into these two chapters - and I much prefer it this way. I love this scene, from Sarah's lingering attraction to Spot's acceptance of her actions. But questions still remain - why did she do it? And why is she so certain he had it coming?


	3. Spot's Entrance

**He Had it Coming**

_It was a murder, but not a crime._

_

* * *

_

I met Spot Conlon only once before, well, before _everything_—him, me, _us_—started, and I remember it well.

It was about eight months ago or so, back in July, back during the infamous newsboys' strike of 1899. When it was happening, those whirlwind quick days in the middle of July, I didn't know that much about the strike, the details about it or the reasons behind it. David was never home then and where he went, so did Les. And, without Les to chatter on and on while I did my piecework, I was left with reading the scraps of unsold newspapers if I wanted any news. When the strike was cut out of the papers, I was cut out of the strike.

When it started, when David first met Jack Kelly and Joseph Pulitzer had yet to raise his prices, the only contact I had outside of my family's apartment came during my afternoon strolls, when Mama allowed me to go out and try to peddle my sewing and lacework. If she had it her way, though, I would've been kept inside, but after Papa's accident… you see, we needed all the money we could earn. So David and Les went off to sell papers, I tended to my lace until my fingers were raw and Mama tried to thin the soup out as best she could.

To be honest, though, I can't say I minded it when Mama sent me out to peddle. All my life I had been treated special, because I was the eldest, because I was the only girl. They treated me like a china doll ready to break—was it no surprise then that I shattered at last? They tried to keep my away from the truth of the streets, only for me to get sucked into an existence so different from mine that I couldn't—and didn't want to, at first—escape.

Maybe if I hadn't been sheltered for so long, being the good Jewish girl I was trained to be… maybe I wouldn't have fallen prey to Spot Conlon's charms. But would I have met Jack Kelly? Was one boy worth another?

If I'm still being honest, I haven't yet figured that out.

Our first meeting, Spot's and mine, I remember that the best. It was at the rally, the grand newsies rally that Jack and David organized, and I was surprisingly allowed to attend. It took place in a flashy vaudeville theatre called Irving Hall, not too far from the corners where David sold his newspapers. Jack—I sigh… _Jack_—knew the headliner, a garish redheaded performer called Medda Larkson, but known as the Swedish Meadowlark. She invited the newsboys in for their rally, newsies from all over the city: Brooklyn, Queens, Harlem, Little Italy, Five Points, the Bowery… everywhere. They all came to hear what my brother and my—Jack had to say.

I must've been the only girl there, except for Medda. But at least she was a seasoned performer, used to the staring, hungry eyes of hungry boys and lusting men. I wasn't. Jack had invited me along, and I fixed my hair up for the evening, all curls and a proper white hat on top. I wore my best dress, too. The evening was special, important to Jack and to David, and I wanted to look my best. Jack invited me—he _wanted_ me there. I had to go.

But the eyes… the stares made me uncomfortable and I tried to stay as close to my brother or Jack when I could. I wasn't deaf. I heard the comments, I pretended to ignore the whistles, and it was only when Jack cuffed one smart-mouthed kid for calling out to me that they seemed to give me my space. I held my breath, in awe and in worry, when Jack stood up on the stage with David and… and _him_.

Jack was smart, smarter than he ever gave himself credit for (if not smart enough to see what was going on under his nose). He noticed how strange their ogling made me react and made it his purpose to keep me in his sight at all times. And when he couldn't, a Manhattan newsie would pop up at my elbow and keep me company. I met Racetrack Higgins that night, and the one-eyed boy, Kid Blink.

And I met Spot Conlon.

Jack had reluctantly gone off, talking to Medda or someone else, leaving me at a table. For once that evening, I wasn't worried because David was sitting nearby, only one seat away. And I trusted David more than anyone else in this world—I still do. He knows exactly what had happened between Spot and me and has never said a word to anyone. He's never judged me. The bonds of blood are thick and David Jacobs has proven that time and time again.

There was only one other person sitting between my brother and me. I didn't pay that much attention to him then, though I recognized that he was the third boy on stage. I remember that I thought he was a cocky boy, and that it wasn't possible that anyone could have eyes that blue. I remember he was short, much shorter than Jack, but he seemed bigger somehow. I remember that he was handsome and the he knew it, and when I glanced his way, I knew it, but I didn't care. I only had eyes for Jack then—

—I remember when that changed.

But I don't remember how I knew his name. Spot Conlon, he wore it like a banner. We weren't properly introduced, but I knew his name anyway. Maybe it was the murmuring of the crowd, or maybe I was in more trouble than I knew then, but when I looked at Spot, I looked straight into those piercing eyes. He was watching me. Now, I'm not vain, but I'm not stupid, either. I'm a pretty girl, I know that. I'm clean, my dress wasn't torn, I smelled good, my hair was styled… and, besides, I _was _the only young girl there. He was watching me, and I knew it.

Except the Brooklyn boy watched me in such a way that only _I_ knew he was. He was smart—maybe not as smart as he liked to think, but I knew he was darn smart. He was at the rally, an ally of Jack Kelly and David Jacobs, an ally of Manhattan. He couldn't afford to be caught making eyes at the girl of one and the sister of the other.

But that didn't mean he didn't watch me.

I remember the way his eyes weighed me down, and I remember how his stare made me more uncomfortable than the rest. I tried not to pay attention to him but it was difficult. With a smirk on his face and one eye trained on me, he lifted his glass and, with a mock toast lifted high but aimed at me, he drank the amber-colored liquid inside.

Down in three gulps, just like the arsenic.

The attention was certainly flattering and I blushed like a young girl, all the while wondering: Where was Jack?

And that's when David jumped up and Spot was forgotten. My brother had seen the warden of the Refuge, that terrible man Snyder, and his lackeys, the corrupt policemen who did his bidding. They'd rushed their way into the rally, and everything happened so fast after that. As quickly as they rushed in, someone grabbed my arm and I rushed out. By the time it was all over, Jack was arrested, David was arrested, most of the boys—including Spot—were arrested. David's reporter friend, a man called Denton, he paid their bail and all of the boys were set free.

All of them, except Jack, who was sent back to the House of Refuge, a former prisoner known as Francis Sullivan. Because, the first time I met Spot Conlon, that's when I found out that Jack Kelly wasn't exactly who he said he was.

Did that justify what happened later on between Spot and me?

No. Of course not.

But I liked to think it did.

* * *

**disclaimer**: The characters used in this story are the property of Disney. They are used with the intent to create entertainment, not profit.

**end note**: Well, I said I wanted to leave the old thoughts up but then I lost them. Instead, I'm going to try to rewrite the story the way I think it should've been told years ago and try to actually finish it this time. Maybe. I hope so.


	4. The Second Meeting

**He Had it Coming**

_It was a murder, but not a crime._

_

* * *

_

I lied.

Can you blame me? No, that's what a murderess is supposed to do. Lie. And after tonight, there's no denying that's what I am. A murderess.

I murdered Spot Conlon.

But, you see, I didn't mean to lie. When I said that I only met Spot once before that night, that fateful night when everything changed and nothing could go back to the way it was… when I said that, I wasn't exactly being so truthful anymore. I didn't mean to fib. It just that I try not to think of him if I don't have to; pushing the memories aside, choosing not to remember at all, it's been that way for so long now. Besides, he's surely dead now, and if they can, my damn memories will be buried with him.

If they even bury him, poor orphan boy that he is—_was_. Would those boys who followed his every whim still respect their leader in death? Or would they just chuck his lifeless body out into the cold? Perhaps they'll given him a sailor's burial and throw him off that dock he always liked to think of as his own.

If I ever see the East River again, I will only think of Spot Conlon. If I ever think of him at all.

But now is not the time to think, but instead the time to regrettably remember. Because, as I sit safe and sound at the small table in Mama's cramped kitchen, I have chosen to remember my time with Spot one final time. I'm not too sure why I feel that I should write it all out, document our brief history—Spot's and mine—but the idea struck me and I know that I'll never feel free until it's done.

So as I sit here, a quick, easy smile gracing my face and a quick offer to help Mama when she entered the kitchen—it's expected of me, even if she doesn't need it—I am hard at work. At the very least, if I'm found out, maybe those who read this after me will find some sort of reasoning behind my actions that makes everything justified. Maybe, one day, they'll understand the reasoning behind my actions.

I'm not too sure I understand it all myself. It was a murder, yes, but _was_ it a crime? Did Spot Conlon deserve death at my hands? To whoever reads this in the end, I'll leave it to them to decide.

But not yet.

It's still the day I gave him that final dose, and I doubt his body has even cooled. So when my mother leaned over and tried to catch a glimpse at what I am writing, I just laughed sweetly and covered the page with the same hand that poured the arsenic powder into Spot Conlon's mug. A love note for Jack, I tell her. A page or two of girlish fancies scrawled in my painstakingly neat script. That's all it is—even when it isn't.

I remember, as a little girl, the long nights where Papa, home from a fourteen hour shift at the factory, would teach David and me how to read and write. David was a far better reader than I; my penmanship is enviable. It's such a shame I never used it much except to take notes for Mama's shopping or write down an address for my lace deliveries.

Now, though, now I have the chance to take my time and put David's fancy fountain pen to paper. Secretly, I've always wanted to write a story and David had offered me his pen the first time I told anyone of my dreams. Back then—long before I knew of newsboys and the trouble they could bring—I'd thought I could write a book and sell it so that Papa wouldn't have to work so hard.

Would anyone buy the story of a naïve Jewish girl and the orphan that stole her innocence? I guess if they catch me and give me the chair, then my story would sell. I could be like that Dutch painter that David read about—Van Gogh, I think his name was. The mad artist painted hundreds, thousands of paintings during his lifetime but sold only one. Then he took his own life just over ten years ago and has been applauded as a genius ever since. According to David, his death made him a true artist.

If I'm ever caught, maybe I would have that to look forward to. Either way, as soon as Mama nodded knowingly at my pages—she really believed I was writing a letter to Jack and, in a way, I guess I am; if there is anyone who deserves to know the truth, it's him—and left me to my own devices, I continued writing my story… _our story_.

After all, it's still only at the beginning.

* * *

Spot Conlon sticks out like a blazing sun in my memories. No matter how much I want to forget, he would always draw me back in, blinding me, making me cry out.

I remember the second time we met with as much clarity as the way he last croaked out my name.

It was on the day that the strike ended last summer. A hot day, muggy, one of those late-July afternoons where your hair stuck to your brow and your neck and a simple blouse was all you should wear, proper or not. We were too busy to notice the heat; with my help—_me_—the newsies distributed a pamphlet they called _The Banner_, gathering the working kids of New York, fighting the newspaper giants. I was allowed to help them, and it was such a thrill to belong. I wasn't just a pretty face. I wasn't just a girl who stayed home and waited for the boys to solve every problem. I was _part _of the strike then.

It didn't take long for Joseph Pulitzer to feel the heat put on him by my brother and Jack. The old grump ordered Jack and David into his office to discuss the strike soon after our affront began. When the pair returned they returned with good news: our efforts had been a success. Pulitzer had given in. The newsies had won.

But things didn't stay sweet for long; the success of the day turned sour almost immediately for me. The governor of New York—yes, Theodore Roosevelt, himself—had come to the city at the request of David's reporter friend, Bryan Denton. The governor made such a spectacle outside of the _World_ Building, arriving in his fancy carriage, I could hardly believe it. But damn that carriage—the very carriage that promised Jack a ride down to the train yards. A ride out of Manhattan.

A ride away from me.

I try not to be but, if I'm going for honesty now, I'm a selfish person. I can accept that, I know that everything I've done is for my first, others next. Last July, I already knew that what Jack wanted more than anything in this world was to head out West. It was his dream to live in Santa Fe—and here was Teddy Roosevelt offering him the chance to get away. And he took it! Jack actually climbed into the governor's carriage, his hands clasped over his head in victory, and he left me standing there, forgotten.

I wasn't alone. It wasn't just me he was deserting. I stood there, David at my right, Les standing just past him, as Jack Kelly just rode out of my life. I continued standing there long after he was out of sight. Do you know, I was still standing there when David and Les slipped away to get in line at the Distribution Center; now that the strike was over, they needed to get back to work. I was teary-eyed and angry. How could he leave? I thought. It didn't matter that there wasn't anything I could offer him to stay, or that I'd know him for mere weeks. I didn't want him to go, so he should've stayed.

Selfish, I told you, and I meant it.

I refused to move, stubborn and selfish and alone as I was. That's when I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. I figured that David and Les had bought their papers and were going to offer to walk me home—and offer I would've refused, I promise you.

But it wasn't my brothers standing there.

Turning around, tears still staining my cheeks, I came face to face with a pair of piercing, icy-cold cyan eyes and a wicked smirk. That's what I noticed first. The eyes and the sly curve of his lips.

Spot Conlon.

He didn't blink, though his eyes crinkled just a bit when he heard the gasp I couldn't keep back. I hadn't expected him to be standing there—if I would've thought of him at all, I would've expected he'd be back in Brooklyn by now—and it struck me in that very moment just how silly I must've looked. I was a mess. My hair was mussed from a long night's work; my white blouse was stained. I had tears in my eyes, as well as streaks down my face.

Without a word, Spot lifted his hand. It was ink-stained, I noticed, and callused, and the skin felt rough when he rubbed his thumb down the length of a single track of my tear. Still, the action was gentle, and I think that surprised me more than anything.

But that didn't stop me from jerking my head out of his reach and quickly taking a few hurried steps back.

I wanted to yell at him, I wanted to demand he explain himself, I wanted to drown in those vivid blue eyes of his—but I didn't do any of those things. I wanted to at least introduce myself, but the words got lost on the way to my mouth. I wanted to ask him his name at any rate, but I was interrupted by a loud cheer that made me jump and manage to forget Spot was standing there (for the first and only time).

A carriage was returning.

And Jack was in it.

Jack had come back.

With his bag slung over his back, Jack leaned down to say something to the governor but the crowd stole the sound. I think Spot might've finally opened his mouth then but, if he did, I wasn't listening. There was a drive inside of me that came to life the moment I saw that Jack had come back and it told me to move. So I did. I pushed my way through the crowd, all elbows and shoves; the crowd had swallowed Jack up when he got down, but it seemed to part as I got closer to him.

I didn't stop until he was standing before me, an apologetic, charming grin and a brightness in his familiarly, warm brown eyes. And I did something that no good girl should ever do, least of all in front of a crowd:

I kissed Jack Kelly.

It was my first kiss, and it seemed just right. It was so different from anything I ever knew but, looking back on it, it was so much like Jack: sweet and lingering, with just a touch of hesitance hidden behind a brash facade. I don't know if that makes much sense to anyone else, but that's how I felt. Besides, this story isn't about Jack and me. At least, not yet.

When I finally pulled away from Jack, the taste of his last, stale cigarette lingering in my mouth, I caught a glimpse of Spot out of the corner of my eye. I don't know why I found him, or why this moment had to be spoiled by the calculating expression of his face, but there he was and, for some reason, I felt the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

I said it before, the first thing I noticed about Spot Conlon was his intelligence, and I'll stand by that to my grave. But the second? The second thing I ever noticed was this: he was a show-off. There was just something inside him that made him have to always one up anyone and everyone—to best them if he could and knock them down if he couldn't.

I had just willingly kissed Jack Kelly in front of all of his newsies. Spot had to top that.

So, with Jack's arm slung tight over my shoulder, and Les holding my left hand, I walked through the gates of the _New York World_ Distribution Center with a cozy and quaint smile on my face. But I didn't look in front of me, choosing to glance to the side or share a quick look with Jack when I could.

And you know why I didn't look straight ahead?

Because of Spot. Spot Conlon was sitting inside the governor's carriage that led the procession. And though his back was to me and my eyes were looking anywhere but at him, I would've bet anything that there was smirk on his face when he tipped his dusty grey cap at the boys waiting outside of the gate.

* * *

**disclaimer**: The characters used in this story are the property of Disney. They are used with the intent to create entertainment, not profit.

**end note**: Thank you for the last few reviews - they are very appreciated :)


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